Desperate Measures

English people are officially obsessed with Thanksgiving. It's the American food-fest of a holiday they've experienced annually in How I Met Your Mother and Friends. And it's almost here!!!!!!! A group of about seven of us United Statesians are hosting a dinner at my house, and everyone can bring a foreign plus one so that people of all nationalities can experience the greatness of the meal commemorating the pilgrims' survival of New England winters. 

I'm learning to cook a turkey. I really don't know how I've avoided it this long. And I'm making the family rolls and cranberry sauce. My cool British roommate is making the "mash." That's mashed potatoes, ya'll, and everyone else is bringing a couple of dishes. 

It's a little odd celebrating the fleeing of colonists from England in England, but there is pie. 

Today Rebecca and I went to the groc (gr'ōwsh (n) - grocery store) near my house to get supplies. We picked out a six kilogram turkey and a ton of other stuff that all seemed like a good idea until I realized how much a six kilo turkey weighs and how much I miss my car. But we bagged it up, and this was the result: 

That bag around my shoulders is a giant, frozen turkey. The ones in my hands probably weigh a little more. But what's a girl to do? It's Thanksgiving! And it's 34 degrees outside, so I sure wasn't waiting around. 

I started home. While I slowly shuffled along, trying to spit out the hair that had blown into my mouth with my best lizard impression and  regretting with everything in me that I spent an hour rockclimbing earlier, the bags pulled too hard against my fingers. And I did way any rational person in my place would do. I threw them into the bushes and walked off. 

Just kidding! Actually I threw half of them into the bushes.

I walked home with the others, dropped them at the door (it's not like refrigeration was an issue), and I went  back to rescue the orphaned food. It was thrilled to see me. 

Yes, I am my mother.